Crownless
by awilliamsbbc.98
Summary: In Narnia they were kings and queens; warriors, leaders and respected adults. In England they are little more than children, but somehow so much more. An exploration of life after Narnia as seen through the eyes of the crownless monarchs. Post VODT-LB. Part Six: In which Susan is angry, the others are dead and stubborn, and Aslan speaks, but not in the way she expects. NOW REVISED
1. The Exiled King

**I don't own Narnia, I know, I'm just as sad as the rest of you. No slash, not really AU, possibly will be continued into a multi chapter story if you all like this.**

 **As of 12/13/17 this story has been revised. I went back to catch grammatical errors, fix plot inconsistencies and add better characterisation. The storyline does remain the same, for the most part. However, I have altered a few things to make the six parts fit together as more of aunified story and less a series of one shots.**

 _June, 1943_

"He must have a reason."

Edmund held back a sigh with difficulty; he was growing extremely tired of Lucy's endless optimism. He knew that she must be just as upset about Aslan's decree that they would never return to Narnia as he was, but she was Lucy-she would remain happily optimistic until she at last dissolved into tears. Edmund, who possessed neither her optimism nor her ability to have a good cry and move on, fell to brooding.

"It can't be that we're too old," he insisted. They were sitting on Lucy's bed in the little back bedroom at Aunt Alberta's, staring at the painting of the Dawn Treader. "Peter and Susan went back last year, and they were older than we are now."

Lucy sighed and frowned at the picture. "Does it really matter why, Edmund?"

It didn't, but he wasn't about to admit that. "It isn't fair." He knew he sounded like a child, not like a king of Narnia, but after all he was a child now-whether he wanted to be or not.

"Edmund, please, what's the use of complaining? It won't get us back to Narnia; nothing will." Her chin trembled, threatening tears, and he immediately felt guilty for causing her such distress.

Had he not been so cross with the entire situation, Edmund would have put a comforting arm around her shoulders. As it was, he glared at the floor and struggled to form an apology. "I'm sorry Lucy, it's just such rotten luck."

She nodded shakily, eyes bright with the effort of holding back her tears.

"LUCY!" Alberta's shrill call cut through the silence like an air raid siren, and both siblings groaned. In the month since they returned from Narnia, Eustace had improved immeasurably and his parents, as if in response to this, had become steadily more unbearable. "LUCY!"

Lucy sighed and shrugged. "Do try not to stay here sulking all day, Ed. At least try to cheer up." She gave him a brave smile and hurried out before Alberta could shriek again.

Left alone Edmund sighed and stared at the painting with all his might, as if through wishing he could somehow fall back into the world which would always be more his home than England.

"What does Aslan expect of me? I'm not a king here, or a warrior, or a diplomat." The painting, for its part, remained stubbornly silent. With difficulty Edmund resisted the impulse to tear it from the wall and smash it. _I can't do this. I can't bear never going home._

"You have to." It was the one of the last voices he expected to hear in the Scrubbs' home in Cambridge, but it was also the most welcome. Peter stood in the doorway, leaning complacently against the frame and looking altogether too pleased with himself. If his opening remark was any indication, he knew precisely what his younger brother had been thinking.

If Edmund, who usually scoffed at such displays of affection, tackled his older brother with a hug I am certain he can be forgiven. Peter laughed and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Alright old chap? Lucy told me you've had rather a rotten time of it since you came back."

Edmund buried his head in Peter's shoulder and fervently hoped Peter wouldn't notice that his sweater was suddenly damp with tears. Kings didn't cry like fools, and neither did English schoolboys. "Lucy told you to come here?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled.

Peter smiled indulgently, of course he did notice his brother's tears, but was far too kind to comment. "Actually, Lucy didn't know I was coming until five minutes ago. Eustace wrote to me, and a rather strange letter it was too."

Edmund, suddenly aware that he was being rather undignified sniffed and stepped away to sit on Lucy's bed again. "I thought you had to stay with the Professor to study all summer." When he sniffed again Peter diplomatically offered him a handkerchief.

"One weekend won't make all that much of a difference with exams, and I have a feeling my being here can make a world of difference." When Edmund said nothing, Peter sighed and resigned himself to waiting in silence. It was no use pushing his brother to talk before he was ready.

"How did you manage so well?" Edmund asked at last, staring at the painting again. "Last time, I mean, after we all came back."

"Honestly, I'm not sure. I know I couldn't have done it without you there to talk sense into me when I started forgetting who I really am. It isn't easy; I still have days when I feel like bashing someone's head in, but it's bearable if only just."

Edmund frowned. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be here. At least last time I knew I'd be going back; now that the door really is closed I don't know who I am."

Peter nodded, his throat suddenly seeming to constrict. _I don't know who I'm supposed to be either, Ed._ Aloud he said, "Give it time, after all, you're only fourteen here. I don't know many boys who have their whole lives sorted out at your age."

Edmund managed a laugh, though it sounded rather choked. "Last time I was this age I was already a king, a judge, and a warrior."

Peter glanced over at him sharply, not particularly pleased by the last item on Edmund's list. "You've been trying to sign up at the recruiting offices again, haven't you? Lucy told me what happened right before you got back into Narnia. Edmund, war is different here; it isn't at all like the wars back home. You can't just go charging into battle like you used to." _Not that I haven't tried the same thing._

"I don't care!" Edmund shouted, suddenly leaping to his feet. "Anything is better than sitting here with bloody stupid relatives pretending to be polite and respectful, and acting like a kid even though I'm not! They're so condescending and patronizing, and I'm sick of being treated like I'm stupid. And, I feel so bloody useless with everything that's happening out there, and I could be out there making a difference, and being useful, and instead I'm stuck here-eating vegetable soup and pretending to care about the shortage of sugar!"

Peter winced, hoping the relatives in question were far enough away that they could not hear Edmund's outburst.

"It isn't fair!" Edmund finished defiantly, fists clenched at his sides to keep from hitting something.

"Feel better?" Peter asked quietly a moment later when Edmund sat down again, looking rather sheepish.

"A bit," he admitted and sniffed again. "I really am glad you're here. Lucy's a brick, but," he shrugged. "She trusts Aslan so much, maybe I should trust Him that much, but somehow I can't, and I'm so horribly angry at Him. She can't understand that."

"And I can." Peter smiled grimly, even as he felt his own anger return. _I was a king,_ he thought bitterly, staring up at the painting. _Now what-who-am I?_ "I don't think I'll ever understand why He did this to us," he said slowly, forcing the bitter thoughts away. Edmund did not need to know just how difficult it still was for him. "Why He would bring us to a world we grew to love more than our own, and then tear us away from it never to return. It doesn't make me love Him less, but I can't help but be angry." _Do I love Him quite as much as I used to?_ It was a troubling thought, and he stubbornly returned to ignoring it.

Edmund nodded. "That's how I feel too, and I feel so horribly guilty for being angry, especially after everything He did for me."

"Just don't let that anger and guilt turn you away from Him." _Who are you really saying that for,_ Peter wondered, feeling vaguely hypocritical. "Even if you can't have faith like Lucy does, trust Him as much as you can." Peter hated how trite the words sounded, but Edmund nodded, silently acknowledging that he understood what Peter meant. "I wish I had a better solution." _For both of us._

Edmund smiled suddenly, and it was the kind of smile that always preceded a plan of some type. Peter waited for him to speak with a hint of trepidation. Edmund's plans could, at times, involve rather more danger than Peter currently felt equal to facing. "Do you think six of us could meet up occasionally? Just to talk about Narnia, to remember everything that happened there, to keep it alive in our minds at least. Do you think it would help?"

"Six of us?" Peter frowned slightly, though he was relieved that, so far, his brother's plan seemed relatively safe. _Unless it ends with us all being institutionalised._

"Us four, plus Eustace and the professor." Edmund grinned. "What do you think Peter?"

"I think," he said slowly, weighing the idea in his mind. "I think that's a brilliant idea Ed! It might do all of us a bit of good to talk without people thinking we're all touched in the head." _It just might work too._

Edmund's smile widened, and it seemed to Peter as though some of the weight he had been carrying lifted from his shoulders.

They both knew that things would never be the same, but, exiled though they were, they were not alone.

 **Let me know what you think and that will decide if I make this a longer story about the Pevensies in England. Also, this is movie verse, slightly reluctantly, which means Edmund is about fourteen (almost old enough to be mistaken for eighteen and join the army, but obviously not quite) as hinted in the movie VODT.**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	2. The Lost Queen

**This takes place a few months after the first chapter but still before The Silver Chair. I still don't own Narnia, dang it! Thank you for the lovely reviews!**

 _December-1943_

"Susan! How could you!" Peter groaned, and exchanged a frustrated grimace with his brother and cousin. Eustace looked shocked, never having heard Lucy use so harsh a tone before; Edmund merely looked quietly resigned-as if he had expected this argument all along, and Peter suspected he had.

The argument in question had begun when the Lucy had asked Susan to join them for dinner. This in itself might not have been grounds for disagreement, had Lucy not failed to inform her sister that the dinner was, in fact, a meeting between the six "Friends of Narnia"-as the had taken to calling themselves. Susan, since returning from America, had withdrawn terribly and Lucy had asked her to dinner in the hope that they could reconnect; so far, the attempt could not have been going more poorly.

"Lucy, for heaven's sake, I'm not a child anymore!" A distant door slammed as Susan stormed out. Lucy appeared a moment later, dangerously near crying and Peter rose to comfort her-hoping to salvage some portion of the evening.

"How could she have forgotten Narnia?" Lucy asked indistinctly, her face buried in Peter's shoulder. Peter shook his head, silently wondering the same thing. No matter how angry or bitter he might feel at times, he knew he would always hold fast to the memories of his beloved home.

Edmund stood calmly, and reached for his coat. "I'll talk to her," he said quietly, and that seemed to reassure Lucy somewhat. A moment later, the door closed again, far more gently this time.

Peter found himself left with the task of comforting Lucy, while Eustace shuffled his feet awkwardly and wished the Professor would arrive to break the tension.

* * *

Edmund caught up with Susan at the corner. She was standing quite still, staring miserably across the park, and he thought he saw tears on her cheeks before she brushed an impatient hand across her eyes. "Why can't you all just grow up?" She demanded when he stopped beside her.

Edmund followed her gaze across the park to where the few trees showed darkly against the dusk sky; it was very like the little wood near Cair Paravel in Narnia. "We have grown up, isn't that the root of the problem?" Susan glared at him sharply. "Come on Su, you can't think I'm foolish enough to believe you've forgotten Narnia."

"I have forgotten." But her voice shook, despite her stubborn insistence. "It was all a stupid game we used to play to help us bear the trials of the war." It was a well-prepared speech, but the lack of conviction was clear in both her voice and expression.

"I understand why you have to tell yourself that, you know. After all, what's the use believing in a place that may as well no longer exist?" Edmund knew caution was required in speaking to Susan now and he was careful to keep his voice calm.

Susan smiled, tight-lipped and pale. "Don't let Lucy hear you say that."

"Lucy has enough faith for all of us; sometimes I almost think it's too much for the rest of us." He offered her his arm, considering it a small victory when she did not immediately withdraw, and smiled. "Shall I walk you to your flat?"

Susan sighed and linked her arm through his. "I don't need a chaperone Ed, I'm perfectly capable of walking home on my own." But there was a smile in her voice and that was enough for Edmund. They walked in silence for a few blocks before Susan spoke again, her voice low and strained. "Do you remember the ball in Anvard?"

"Which one?" Edmund asked with a smile. "There were several as I recall."

"The last one before we…left. You and Peter took yourselves so seriously, especially your duties as Lucy's and my protectors." The strained, tense quality to her voice intensified, and Edmund knew the pain it must cause her to remember.

"The Duke of Galma was rather an odious fellow as I recall." Edmund scowled, remembering the insulting way he had addressed Susan.

"I told you at the beginning of the night that I didn't need a chaperone; at the end of it I had cause to be glad of your presence, dear brother." Her speech began to slip, the courtly language she had used in Narnia beginning to overwhelm the more common form of speaking in England.

"And now, gentle sister? Have you cause to be glad of my presence?"

"I have, for it is to you I will speak plainly, as I cannot to our royal brother and sister. Edmund, you must all let me go. When first I found myself banished from our home I hoped to remain as I once was; once a king or queen in Narnia always a king or queen in Narnia. I had hoped His promise would hold true, even here." She wiped away a stray tear as it slid down her cheek, leaving an inky trail behind as her mascara began to run. "It cannot hold true. The pain of remembering, yet being trapped away from the home I love, has proved too much. I have not Lucy's faith, nor Peter's strength, nor your wisdom Edmund. I have only the chance to build a life for myself in this strange world."

"And that is what you intend to do now? To build a life here, forsaking your ties with our home?" Edmund knew that if Peter, or even Lucy, had spoken those words to Susan she would have felt a keen sense of judgement in them. He could only hope that she would not interpret his own words in a similar fashion-he was not trying to judge her, and the question was merely an attempt to understand her better. Much to his relief Susan seemed to realise this and when she spoke it was with no trace of anger.

"You have spoken wisely, brother. That is my hope, though it offends our noble siblings, and causes me no little pain. If ever I am to have a chance at happiness, I must forget the pain I feel; to forget the pain, I must forget the cause."

Edmund bowed and kissed her hand formally, barely trusting himself to speak. There was only one response he could give to her words, only one would be fair, and he knew it was not the one the others would have wished him to make. "Then, Queen Susan of Narnia, you have my blessing, though, in truth, you do not need it. Above all things, I desire the happiness of those most dear to me, and if there is joy to be found in this world I would wish it all for you."

Edmund felt no anger at his sister's choice as Peter would have, he felt no betrayal as Lucy would; there was only an echo of the sadness and despair he had been plagued with over the summer. _I do understand, more than you know, Susan. It could just as easily have been me saying those words._

For a moment they stood on the front steps of Susan's flat, facing each other as Queen Susan and King Edmund her brother, and for that moment Susan's resolve seemed to waver. Then she pulled her hand away, and smiled with false brightness.

"Well, then, thanks for walking me back." There was no trace now of a Narnian Queen in her words or accent, and Edmund felt a keen sense of loss at its absence. "Do pass my apologies on to the others, won't you?"

Edmund nodded silently as she turned away. He found his voice just as she was disappearing through the dim doorway and suddenly felt compelled to call after her. He could not leave her without a way back, should she wish to take it.

"Susan?" She turned back, cheeks streaked with the tracks of bitter tears. "If you ever change your mind, you know where to find us."

She smiled brittlely, the expression a poor denial of her true sorrow. "Thanks Ed, good night."

"Good night, Susan." The door closed after her, but Edmund stayed where he was for another long moment, staring unseeingly up at the small flat. _Remember Susan, many paths lead home; though yours may be different than ours, I know you will find it someday._

* * *

Peter frowned when Edmund slipped back into the dining room alone. "Susan?"

Edmund shook his head, looking exhausted and sorrowful. "She isn't coming back."

Peter immediately knew what he really meant, and his face flushed in anger. _She isn't_ ever _coming back._ He pulled Edmund aside quickly, before Lucy could question him, and glowered darkly at his brother.

"Lion's Mane Edmund, when you said you would talk to her, I rather expected a different outcome!" _You should have been able to stop her._

Edmund raised his eyebrows at the hostility in his tone, but his voice was calm and reasonable. "Have you so easily forgotten, High King, which of us was the diplomat?"

Shame nearly replaced his anger and Peter shook his head, glowering at the floor. "Still, what did you say to her?"

"I didn't need to say much; she needed someone to listen. Look Peter, I know losing Narnia hurt all of us and we all chose to remember anyway. For Susan, the remembering isn't worth the pain and she needs to move on. We have to let her." Edmund sighed, shrugged, and seemed ready to dismiss the entire topic.

Peter stared at his brother in amazement. "Let her forget?"

"If I had come to you last summer and told you I couldn't bear the pain of being separated from Narnia would you have loved me less for admitting it?"

Peter shook his head. "Of course not! I would have told you what a fool you were being, but," he paused, glowered more fiercely at the floor, and tried to find a way to deny the truth-there wasn't one. "If you were still determined not to remember Narnia, I suppose I would have accepted it."

"Then accept Susan's decision with as much grace." Edmund smiled gravely, looking far older than he had any right to. "She's still our sister, Pete, she's still a queen, and she still deserves our respect, even if we don't agree with her."

Peter nodded, though he couldn't quite banish his frown as he took his seat at the head of the table.

Lucy blinked back tears as Edmund sat next to Susan's empty chair, between Peter and the Professor, and raised his water glass in a final toast to Narnia's lost queen. "To Susan, may Aslan bring her joy of the path she has chosen."

"To Susan!" The others echoed, their degrees of enthusiasm varying greatly.

 _To Susan, may she soon realise what a fool she has been._ But deep down, Peter could not help wondering if she had the right idea, and it was this uncertainty that fueled his anger.

 **I'm not sure I like this, but hopefully someone will! Let me know if you do or you don't, either way.**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	3. The Healer Without A Cure

**I decided to update after all! Two stories at once; this should be interesting. This story has turned into an excuse to make all four Pevensies thoroughly miserable; oops.**

 _December, 1945_

It was the coughing that woke Lucy; the harsh, painful sound cut through the thin walls of the Finchley house in a way it never would have in Cair Paravel. For a moment she lay still, blinking up at the ceiling and listening intently. For the first time in years they were all together-well, all except Susan-in the old house where they had grown up the first time. Rain pelted against her window in a strangely comforting cadence, but otherwise all seemed silent. The gentle rhythm of the falling water had nearly lulled her back to sleep before the coughing began again.

Sighing and abandoning any hope of sleeping, she got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. She turned up the wick on the oil lamp, and carrying it very carefully, tiptoed down the hallway to Peter's room. The door was open, and the bed was empty, blankets tossed aside in apparent haste. Lucy did not find this particularly surprising, after all, Peter very rarely became ill. When she slipped through the next door into Edmund's room she was equally unsurprised to find Peter already there, perched on the edge of Edmund's bed and appearing very uncertain of how to help as the younger boy struggled miserably to catch his breath.

Peter looked up as she set the lamp down on the little table, and his eyes were dark with worry. "Is there anything you can do?" he asked quietly, reminding her of her role as healer.

"What happened?" She asked gently, taking her place on the other side of the bed and putting an arm around Edmund's shoulders. _How many times have I been here before?_ she wondered sadly. At least in Narnia she would have been able to help.

"I have a cold," Edmund choked out between coughing fits, glaring alarmingly-first Peter and then Lucy. "Go back to bed, I'm perfectly-" He nearly choked again as a particularly violent fit of coughing cut off the end of the sentence.

Peter raised an eyebrow, appearing amused despite the circumstances. "You were saying, dear brother?"

Lucy smiled slightly, but felt her expression darken quickly as she laid a hand on Edmund's forehead-there could be no doubt that he had a fever as well as a cough. "Edmund! How long have you been sick?" She asked sternly. _And why do you never say anything!_

Edmund shrugged, stifling another cough. "A couple of days,"-he saw her frown and Peter's expression of exasperation and hastened to add-"but it wasn't this bad. I didn't want to say anything, I knew you would all worry, and this is the first time we three have all been together with mum and dad for so long. I didn't want to spoil our holiday." He buried his head against Peter's shoulder, teeth chattering as he shivered. He looked so thoroughly miserable that Lucy simply couldn't find it in her heart to continue being cross with him.

"Ed! You should have told me before I dragged you all over London in the rain earlier!" Peter admonished, though there was more worry than reproach in his voice.

Edmund shrugged and nestled closer to his brother, shoulders shaking. "It's cold," he mumbled, voice muffled. _But at least he isn't coughing anymore,_ Lucy told herself optimistically as she draped another blanket around his shoulders.

Peter frowned when Edmund didn't even bother protesting at being mothered, and they exchanged a worried look over his head. _Will he be alright?_ Peter mouthed silently.

Lucy desperately wanted to say yes, of course Edmund would be alright in a day or two, but they both knew their brother too well. Edmund's colds were never just colds, and, as often as not, a cough became a full-fledged case of pneumonia before he even saw fit to admit he was ill. So, Lucy merely shrugged miserably, and Peter, understanding her lack of response, wrapped his arms more firmly around Edmund, as if to protect him from the invisible foe of sickness.

Lucy rose quietly and found her way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. _There was a time I could have fixed this,_ she remembered dejectedly. A single drop of her cordial would have banished the sickness threatening her brother's well-being, but she was no longer in Narnia. In England the best medicine she had access to was cough syrup and copious amounts of hot tea; how useless it seemed in comparison with the gift that had once been hers.

She stared out the window into the slanting rain, waiting for the kettle to boil, and found herself gripping the countertop so hard her knuckles showed white.

 _Oh, Aslan! Why does Edmund have to suffer when I could so easily have helped him before? You know I love and trust You, but I don't understand Your reasons._ She forced herself to release her grip on the countertop and shook her head. _No,_ she told herself firmly. _I will not doubt Him; I will not ask what might have been._

She listened, half expecting a well remember voice to answer her as had so often been the case before, but the only response she received was the sudden, shrill, shrieking of the kettle. She poured the tea into a mug, took the glass bottle of cough syrup from the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom, and slipped quietly back into Edmund's room.

Peter shook Edmund's shoulder slightly when he saw Lucy and ran a hand through his sweat damp hair. "Ed. Eddie, come on; Lucy's brought you some tea."

Edmund batted his hand away irritably, though Lucy knew he really didn't mind at all, and opened one eye to peer blearily at her. "Lu? I thought you at least had the good sense to go back to bed." His voice was rough from coughing and Lucy felt her own throat tighten with sympathy. Peter had to grab the tea cup out of his hand when it shook so badly that he was in danger of spilling the scalding liquid.

"Yes, I know you're not a child. No that doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying to help you," Peter said sternly in response to Edmund's halfhearted glare. It was an argument Lucy could remember her brothers having too many times for her to count-clearly it had been often enough that it was no longer strictly necessary for Edmund to voice his complaints aloud.

Peter shot her another worried look when, instead of protesting the point further, Edmund only shrugged and excepted his help with more grace than he had in years. Still, he seemed to feel somewhat better after he had finished his tea, and accepted a dose of cough syrup with a grimace and a muttered curse that Lucy graciously pretended not to hear. He slumped back against Peter's chest, and closed his eyes, grumbling only vaguely that they really ought to go back to their own beds and let him sleep in peace.

Despite the lateness of the hour, neither Peter or Lucy were inclined to leave. They sat quietly, listening to Edmund's breathing even out into a steady rhythm as he fell asleep.

"You should go to bed, Lu, I'll stay with him," Peter said at last, softly enough not to wake their brother.

Lucy shook her head, checking Edmund's temperature with a gentle hand on his forehead; the fever was still raging. "I want to stay with him, it's bad enough I can't help him-the least I can do is be here if he needs me."

Peter nodded, offering no further argument as he settled back into a more comfortable position and wrapped his arms more securely around Edmund's shoulders.

When morning came, and Edmund had not improved, Lucy knew they had to tell their parents. A part of her-the same part that was still Queen Lucy despite her decreased age and authority-was loathe to surrender the care of her brother to those considered better qualified to help him, but she knew it was inevitable.

The doctor was summoned, their mother hovered anxiously, and their father smiled kindly and tried to say comforting things to her, but spoke as if she were still only a child. It was maddening, but Lucy smiled and hugged him, knowing he was doing his best, even though he could never hope to understand how old she really was. It would do no good to protest, so she trailed after her mother, helping her make soup-all the while wanting nothing more than to burst back into Edmund's room and demand the doctor tell her what he was going to do for her brother.

Lucy could tell it was no easier for Peter. He paced uneasily, looking the part of a caged and impatient lion, and she was painfully reminded of how he had often paced by Edmund's bedside in Narnia. (It had always seemed as though Edmund found himself ill or injured more than the rest of them combined.) The difference now was that in Narnia the worst of the worry would have lasted only as long as it took for Lucy to slip a drop of cordial into Edmund's tea-he always refused to take it if conscious-or into his mouth if he would not wake.

By the time the doctor reappeared, Lucy found herself close to tears. She could not remember having felt quite so useless before—at least, not in the last decade or so—and the doctor's grim expression did nothing to reassure her. He spoke to their parents in a low, grave voice-that Lucy and Peter could not overhear however hard they tried—smiled kindly and insincerely, then turned up his coat collar against the rain and took his leave.

"Well?" Peter asked, when their mother and father turned back from the door. His arms were crossed, and Lucy, who knew him better than their parents, could tell he was dangerously close to losing his temper. She quickly put her arm around him, hoping to prevent a shouting match.

Mr. Pevensie raised his eyebrows at his eldest son's tone. "Not to worry, I'm sure Edmund will be fine in a day or two." The words sounded reassuring enough, but Lucy could see the worried uncertainty in his eyes.

Peter, obviously less concerned with their father's feelings, scowled and opened his mouth to make some sharp retort.

Lucy shook her head in warning and tugged on his arm, silently begging him not to start an argument. It wasn't their father's fault that he did not know how close the four of them had become in Narnia, and there was no way for him to understand how responsible for Edmund Peter now felt. Lucy did understand, but she also knew arguing would never get them anywhere. They were worried siblings, scarcely more than children, and if their parents did not see fit to be honest with them then there was nothing to be done about it.

Peter resisted for a moment, fists clenched in frustration, before he allowed himself to be pulled away. They left their parents alone—to discuss whatever it was they would not discuss in the presence of their children—and slipped back into Edmund's room.

He was asleep, which might have been comforting, if his face had not been so pale—save for the bright flush of fever on his cheeks. Lucy felt his forehead again, surprised when he didn't even stir at the contact, and bit her lip in worry. The fever was worse than it had been the night before, or even that morning, and Lucy knew it would soon become dangerous.

Peter glared at the closed door, obviously still furious. "He has no right to talk down to me! I've been the one to take care of Edmund all these years—not him."

Peter's voice was louder than usual-he was almost shouting-and Lucy sighed. She understood what he meant—it was terribly trying to be treated like children—but really, why couldn't they all just get along? She was just opening her mouth to tell him just that when Edmund stirred, eyes wandering aimlessly beneath his closed eyelids, not waking, but obviously disturbed by the volume of his brother's voice.

Peter seemed to forget his ire immediately and moved to calm him, brushing a hand through his sweat damp hair and paling considerably when he felt the heat burning through Edmund's skin. He looked pleadingly to Lucy, silently begging her to help.

There was no accusation at her uselessness in his eyes, but Lucy felt her already fragile control over her emotions waver when faced with his desperation. She turned away quickly, hiding her tears, and mumbled something about making more tea. She stumbled blindly into the hallway, and fled to her room, tears burning her cheeks as she ran.

 _Oh Aslan! How can I be a healer when I have no cure for this? He's so very ill; I'm afraid! Please, please help us Aslan; at least let me know that You hear me. Please, don't let anything happen to him; please!_

But she was terribly aware-perhaps for the first time-that Aslan was not there, and neither was her cordial. She was helpless. The Valiant Queen threw herself face-down onto her bed and wept.

 **Sorry Ed; I really didn't intend to make you ill for the entire chapter but it just sort of happened...Anyway, there will be a second part to this since I can't leave Edmund ill forever. I still haven't decided whether to make it from Lucy's perspective, and provide her with some closure to her doubts, or to make it from Peter's perspective and confront his troubles with being back in England and unable to help Edmund the way he could in Narnia. Thoughts? Let me know which sibling you would like to be featured in the next update in a review!**

 **Cheers,  
A**


	4. The Powerless Protector

**Well...I can't make Edmund stay ill forever so here is the conclusion to the previous part's storyline.**

 _December, 1945_

Peter sighed and settled into the chair the doctor had pulled up to Edmund's bed-it was a terribly familiar place for him to be. He remembered the first time Edmund had been this ill in Narnia, he was fifteen then too, when what he insisted was only a bad cold worsened overnight into a dangerously high fever and painful cough. Of course, it was different then; in Narnia nearly anything could be cured with a few drops of Lucy's cordial.

When Edmund refused to take it, insisting as he always did that he was "perfectly fine, thank you very much." and "would you all please stop hovering?", they had taken matters into their own hands and slipped the precious cure into his tea. After all, an indignant at being tricked Edmund was better than a miserably ill one.

"Why is it you always become so terribly ill?" Peter asked rhetorically, and was surprised when Edmund laughed.

"Perhaps because I never learn to do as I'm told." His voice was rough from coughing, but his expression conveyed nothing save amusement.

Peter smiled in response to the old, much-used jest, but it wasn't enough of a distraction to make him forget his original concern. "It must have been every year for the last ten years of our reign that I ordered you to rest and not push yourself so far that you fell ill."

"And every year I ignored you." Edmund stifled a cough and scowled. "At least you and Lucy never seem to catch whatever I have; Susan always did."

Peter glared at the carpeted floor in response to hearing their sister's name. _Susan—why does everything end up being about Susan?_

"Then I suppose its lucky we're the ones here to take care of you now," he said aloud, feeling rather guilty at the sharpness in his voice. But after all, why should he feel guilty? Susan wasn't there-hadn't been there for any of them in a long time.

"You're too hard on her." It wasn't a statement of judgement or blame, it was merely a fact, but Peter felt his cheeks burn in shame. Edmund could nearly always guess what he was thinking, and at times it was incredibly frustrating. _As long as he never guesses why I'm actually angry with her._

"I don't think I'll ever understand how she could have turned her back on everything we believed in and fought for." _Even if she is right, it still isn't fair that she gets to go on with her life while the rest of us are stuck in the past._

Edmund frowned at him and started to speak, but the words quickly turned into a cough. Peter gritted his teeth in frustration, knowing he could do nothing to help, but finding his own uselessness infuriating all the same. He had always protected Edmund, once they went to Narnia at least; sitting by helplessly was no longer something he understood how to do.

"I'm sorry," Peter said quietly, when the coughing fit had passed at last. "I should have noticed you were sick yesterday and not gone traipsing halfway across the city in the rain."

Edmund rolled his eyes—dismissing the admission of guilt as easily as he always had. "Did we not agree many years ago, my dear brother, that you would not blame yourself so harshly for imagined failings?"

Peter nodded, though he didn't feel particularly comforted. That promise had been made under entirely different circumstances—a whole world away.

"It was by my own choice that I accompanied you," Edmund continued, obviously unwilling to let the matter rest. "And the blame falls upon me for being a fool." He yawned, and closed his eyes-clearly not allowing further argument.

Peter sighed and leaned back in his chair, exhausted himself, but determined not to leave Edmund's side. He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew Edmund was shaking his shoulder urgently to wake him. He jerked awake, fumbling to find the sword that was no longer at his side, and blinked in confusion at his brother. "Ed? What's wrong?"

Edmund put a finger to his lips, motioning towards the door and swaying unsteadily on his feet. "Come on, we need to get out of here before they come back!"

Peter stared at him in bewilderment. "Before who comes back? Edmund, what's wrong?" Muddled as his mind was with sleep it took him amount to realise Edmund's eyes were unfocused and glazed with fever. It was obvious Edmund didn't know where he was, and wherever he _thought_ he was didn't seem to be pleasant.

"It's alright Ed, it's just a dream, go back to sleep." As he spoke, he put what he hoped was a comforting arm around Edmund's shoulders and tried to guide him back to bed.

Edmund didn't resist, leading Peter to hope he was at least somewhat what aware of his surroundings-it proved to be a false hope however. As Peter was settling the blankets back around his shoulders, Edmund caught his wrist with a sudden, wild strength and there was terror in his eyes.

"Where are we? We aren't in Narnia; where are we?"

Peter gently pried his brother's fingers loose from around his wrist and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay; we're safe." _Please, let it be true._ But he wasn't entirely sure who was directing the silent plea to.

"I want to go home, please, I just want to go home." His eyes filled with desperate tears, and Peter had to look away to keep his own eyes dry.

"It's okay, Eddie, I promise it's going to be okay. I'm right here."

"I want to go home," he repeated pathetically, burying his face in Peter's shoulder. "We can't ever go home, can we Pete?" He asked quietly a moment later, and Peter bit his lip to hold back a sob.

"It's okay Ed, we'll go home soon. Everything will be alright." The words, untrue though they were, seemed to calm Edmund and he fell back into an uneasy sleep-though Peter was nearly certain the nightmares would return.

 _Oh Aslan, why have You done this to us? Why have You called us from our home to live in this foreign land; why must we wander; sovereigns without crowns, warriors without weapons?_

The High King of Narnia sat in the old house in Finchley, holding his brother close, and wept for all they had lost.

Edmund did not improve in the three days that followed, and the doctor came more frequently, looking far graver every time he left. Their parents spoke in low, hushed tones and fell silent whenever Peter and Lucy approached, trying in their own way to provide what comfort they could. Peter acknowledged their clumsy attempts with more grace than he felt he would have done ordinarily. He knew it wasn't their fault, and he had no energy left for anger.

On the third day, their refused to let Lucy into Edmund's room, warning her that she was likely to become sick as well. Lucy protested and argued but in the end, it was no use. Peter was merely glad no one had tried to stop him from seeing his brother. Had the doctor tried he would have immediately regretted it, and his parents were at least wise enough to understand such a decree would do no good anyway.

Edmund was quiet now, and scarcely woke save to cough until he could barely breath. Peter overheard the doctor say that if the fever did not break soon there would be nothing left to do, and he clenched his fists, howling in the privacy of his own mind at such a pronouncement. It could not be. Not after everything that had happened in Narnia, the battles, injuries, and even accidents; his brother simply could not die in a place where he should have been safe.

He refused to leave Edmund's side after that, and no one could convince him otherwise. His parents joined him often, but he scarcely took note of their presence; only one thing mattered—being there for Edmund should he wake.

The fourth night was the worst, and Peter could only sit and watch as Edmund's breathing grew more laboured and the fever seemed to burn away what little strength he had left to fight the illness. He did not sleep, barely dared to close his eyes even for a moment, for fear that when he opened them again—but no, he would not acknowledge that fear even to himself.

Edmund would recover; in no time he would be badgering Peter to play rugby with him, glowering and complaining about being woken before mid-day, and making a general nuisance of himself while Peter tried to study—not that Peter ever minded.

The grandfather clock in the hallway had just struck two when Edmund opened his eyes and reached weakly for his hand. Peter was at his side in an instant, heart pounding with nameless terror.

"Pete..Peter?"

"I'm here, I'm right here, Eddie."

Edmund smiled and grasped his hand with surprising strength. "Still hovering, after all this time?"

"Good luck getting me to ever stop." He knew how much Edmund professed to hate being fussed over, but that had yet to prevent him from doing it anyway.

"There's a letter…in the top drawer of my desk-" a fit of coughing shook him, and it was a long moment before he regained his breath enough to speak. "Read it if…if you have to. Tell the girls I love them."

A single tear slipped from the corner of one eye and Peter brushed it away, nearly choking with the effort of holding back his own tears.

"And you…neither English schoolboys…nor kings are raised to say this…but I love you, my brother." Edmund smiled again, that same small, sad smile and closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort of speaking.

Peter ran, sobbing, not caring that kings didn't cry, not caring that nearly grown men didn't cry—not caring who he woke. The door slammed behind him before he more than half realised he meant to run outside—it didn't matter. His feet seemed to move of their own accord and when he stopped to wonder where he was, Peter found himself in the little park just across the street. It was dark and quiet, peaceful even, but it didn't matter—nothing did—because Edmund had been saying goodbye, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He clenched his fists, fury rising within him, threatening to break free. "You can't have him!" He shouted at the night, though to who he spoke he was not sure. "You can't take him; I won't let you! You took my kingdom, my home, the person I thought I was, my sister even; isn't that enough? You won't take Edmund! You won't take my brother!" His voice broke, a distant dog barked, a few lights in nearby houses turned on, the inhabitants disturbed by the noise he was making—nothing else happened.

"ASLAN! I know You can hear me! I know You can see me, even here, I will not let You take him! I followed You, trusted You, fought and bled for the country You gave me, but in this I DEFY YOU!"

The earth shook, and Peter fell to his knees as he once more heard the well-remembered voice of the Lion. Afterwards, he could never remember if Aslan had spoken to him properly, or if he merely heard the voice in his mind, but it scarcely mattered.

 _Peter, my son._ The words held no anger or trace of rebuke; they were kind, so kind that it hurt, and so infinitely sad that Peter immediately felt ashamed of his own sorrow—for the Lion's was far, far deeper.

 _Have a care that you do not now say that which you cannot take back. You have called to Me in your despair, and in your despair, I have answered. What would you ask of Me, Son of Adam?_

"Aslan, forgive me, I-I do not know what to say." He hung his head and wept, certain he would hear anger and judgement in the calm voice now, but he did not.

 _My son, it is forgiven. You called to me out of agony, not out of anger, though you yourself did not know the reason. Yet do not forget yourself, High King, I will not always answer you so clearly, and it is for the sake of the love you have for your brother, not for the sake of your defiance that I speak with you now._

"Yes, Aslan."

 _Now, tell me, what is it you would ask of me?_

"Don't You already know, Aslan?" he asked, eyes still fixed, unseeing, upon the grass. _Please. Please help me._

 _I do, but I would have you ask it all the same_. The familiar voice held a hint of amusement now, and Peter remember this was how it had always been. The Lion always knew, but the asking seemed necessary nonetheless.

"Then, please, isn't there anything you can do for him? For Edmund, I mean? I can't-I can't bear to lose him." He stared down at his hands as he dug his fingers into the cold, damp earth, and could not push away a shudder of terror. _What if he says no?_

 _I call all those faithful to Me to My Own Country, High King, that is no cause for grief. However, it is not yet time to call Edmund home; soon, but not yet._

A wave of warmth washed over Peter at the Lion's words, filling him with a shadow of the peace he had always felt in Aslan's presence.

"Thank you, Aslan." At last, he dared to look up, but no golden Lion towered over him. "Why can't I see you? I can hear you, but I can't see you."

 _This is not My world. In this world, I have another name and another face; you must learn to know Me in this world. It was this I charged you with at our last parting. I will not appear to you again as Aslan until we meet in My Own Country._

"When will we?" But the voice was gone, and Peter found himself alone. He stood shakily and began walking back, his feet heavy as lead and his heart pounding with desperate hope. _Please, please, let it be real._

His father was standing in the doorway, waiting for him with a stern—though not unkind—expression on his face. For once, Peter felt no hint of exasperation at being regarded as a child—there was room for little else in his heart save the hope he clung to so fervently. _Not yet. Soon, but not yet._ And the Lion called all times soon.

"You certainly gave us all a fright, young man, running out like that."

"I'm sorry dad, I just-I couldn't-Edmund?" The words were a jumble, but his father seemed to understand and stepped aside smiling.

"I think perhaps you'd better go see him, though more quietly than you left if you wouldn't mind; he's sleeping. You're lucky you didn't wake him when you went rushing out like that." But he thought there was more understanding than reproof in his father's voice.

 _Perhaps he understands more than I credited him with knowing._ There would be time, later, for them to talk. Time for Peter to explain what he could, and strive to understand his father better in turn, but for now he could delay no longer.

He tiptoed back into Edmund's room, grateful beyond measure that Edmund had not woken earlier. His brother, however ill he was, would have tried to follow him and that would only have made things worse.

Lucy and his mother glanced up, both smiling despite their exhaustion, as he pushed the door open—barely daring to breathe.

"The fever's broken," his mother said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "I think he's on the mend at last." And though there were tears in her eyes, they were not now tears of grief.

Lucy smiled wearily and tugged on her mother's hand, guiding her out of the room with a few low words. She looked back in the doorway with a question in her eyes and Peter nodded—they would talk later. Somehow, Lucy seemed to understand what had happened even without being told, and her face glowed with the same peace Peter felt in the presence of Aslan.

He dropped silently back into his abandoned chair and cautiously reached out to brush a hand across his brother's forehead. His skin was cooler now, and already the flush of fever was fading from his face, leaving it pale and worn, but far more peaceful.

Peter shifted from the chair to the edge of the bed, smiling when Edmund moved unconsciously closer to him and mumbled something indistinct but did not wake. He took Edmund's hand gently in both of his, and was stubbornly unashamed of the way his vision blurred.

"I love you too, Eddie," he said quietly, and it seemed as though Edmund must have heard him, for even in his sleep he smiled.

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter; reviews are always much appreciated! Thank you to all of you who have read and reviewed so far!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	5. Once A King or Queen

**Apologies for the delay in posting this...I have many excuses, but none of them are particularly important. I still don't own Narnia.**

 _December, 1949_

"Do you think they would work?" Peter's quiet voice was almost lost in the bustle of the busy railway station, but the strangeness of his tone was enough to make his younger brother look over at him sharply. They were sitting on one of the sturdy benches that lined the railway platform, and the brown paper bag, looking harmless enough, was on the bench between them. It was at the bag, rather than at his brother that Peter directed his remark, and Edmund might have thought that strange, had he not been all too aware of what the brown paper concealed.

"They have to, haven't they? That sort of magic always works, at least according to the professor." Edmund really didn't like the expression on Peter's face; it reminded him far too much of a different railway station and a different conversation about going back.

"So, they would have to work," Peter continued, his voice calm despite the desperation the words themselves held. "They would have to take us back."

"Peter-"

"No; listen!" He stood to pace along the edge of the platform, and Edmund was rather worried he would turn his ankle and fall onto the tracks. "I'm not saying we should use them, but-but we could, couldn't we?"

Edmund found himself shifting slightly further away from the crumpled bag. It was so close, magic to take them back; magic to take them home. He remembered the strange, tingling feeling in his hands, even through the thick workman's gloves, when he had held the rings. They were bright and shining, brilliant colours undimmed even after decades in the earth, and he supposed that was part of their magic.

 _We could go back._ A faint, silvery music seemed to hang in the air, a wistful and enticing melody; he shook his head to clear it.

"No." Hearing his own voice say the word was as much a surprise to him as it seemed to be to Peter. "We couldn't."

Peter stopped pacing abruptly and dropped heavily back onto the bench, eyeing the bag longingly. "I know. It's just been so long, and I know that this is our world now, but it doesn't feel real somehow. Do you know what I mean?"

Edmund nodded, scowling at the dingy greys and browns that surrounded them. "I wonder if there will ever be places like this in Narnia. England used to be an awful lot like Narnia, I suppose, back in Medieval times-minus the Talking Animals, Fauns, Centaurs and the like, of course. I suppose it could progress to this someday." He was trying to distract Peter more than anything else, and for a moment it seemed to work.

"I hadn't thought of that." Peter scowled too then, looking at the station with barely contained disgust. "It seems wrong somehow, doesn't it? Knocking down forests and blocking up streams to recreate something like the Industrial Revolution. I suppose we could ask Eustace and Jill, when they-well, when they get back this time."

 _Blast! There he goes again!_ "It's no use spending our lives wishing we could go back." Edmund hated saying it, however sensible it sounded. _I sound like Susan,_ he realised, and found the thought vaguely amusing-though he was well aware that if Peter realised the same thing he would be far less likely to listen.

"I'm not," Peter hastened to assure him, though they both knew he wasn't being entirely honest. "It's just-I do want to go back. It was home. And, I know it wasn't perfect," his expression darkened as he looked at the bag again. "We all went through far too much to ever make the mistake of calling it perfect, but it was right for us somehow."

"We will go back, someday." Edmund wasn't sure where the words came from, they certainly weren't in line with what he had been thinking a moment before, but they sounded right-as if he were somehow meant to say them.

"You said yourself that we can't." Peter looked up from the bag to frown at him.

"I know." He really didn't understand it himself. "I know we can't go back, but somehow I also know we will. Just, not like this." He shrugged helplessly and glanced down at his watch; five till, the train would be coming soon.

Peter shook his head with a hint of a smile, seeming to shake off his darker thoughts for a moment at least. "Are you sure it's your knee you hurt playing rugby, and not your head?"

Edmund elbowed him in the ribs good naturedly, grateful for the sudden change in topic. "Quite sure." He slowly straightened the knee in question and was relieved to find that it was merely stiff, not painful as it had been the day before. "Besides, if Orieus' methods of training didn't manage to permanently damage my brain, I'm fairly certain rugby stands no chance of doing so."

Obviously, it had been the wrong thing to say, because Peter's scowl returned in full force. "Aren't you even tempted to try?"

 _And we're back to this again._ "Of course I am, but I learned my lesson about fooling around with magic the first time."

Peter didn't seem to have anything to say in response, so they sat in silence for a long moment, and Edmund glanced back at his watch. Just past ten; the train was late, as usual. (British railways had lately been a source of endless frustration for Edmund; what was the point of having a timetable if the trains weren't going to be on time?)

"Do you remember when you were so terribly ill?" Peter was still looking at the paper bag, but he didn't appear to be seeing it now.

"Which time?" His brother didn't seem to appreciate the attempt at humour, and Edmund wondered briefly how long it would take Peter's face to freeze in its current expression.

"Four-no, three winters ago; don't act like you've forgotten the scare you gave us."

"Alright," he relented, considering snatching up the bag and stuffing it into his pocket. If Peter stared at it any longer the paper seemed in danger of igniting. "I'm not likely to forget the ridiculous way you were blubbing the whole time. You were worse than Lucy."

Peter did smile at then; he had never been able to remain serious when faced with that particular accusation. "I was not! Anyway, Aslan and I had something of a row. Well, not a row exactly-more like me shouting at Him in the middle of the park."

Edmund blinked, confused and rather concerned. "Pete, please tell me you didn't do anything spectacularly idiotic?" _Although, what could be more idiotic than shouting at a_ Narnian _Lion in the middle of an_ English _park in the first place?_

"Of course I did; you were dying. But, it was alright in the end because He answered. It wasn't quite Aslan, but it was enough to make me realise I hadn't been looking for Him nearly as hard as I should have been." Peter looked away from the bag at last, and smiled, the deeply etched frown melting off his face. He looked somehow older without the petulant expression, one step closer to appearing like the king he had once been.

"That's why you insisted that we all go to the Christmas service that year," Edmund realised suddenly-he had always rather wondered about that, but had avoided asking Peter. He suspected discussing the events of that winter would lead to a much more sentimental display than he was prepared to deal with.

The fact remained, that before the winter in question, Lucy had been the only one who tried going to church. The rest of them had been struggling with too many conflicting feelings to risk seeking Aslan in religion, and finding that it was an empty substitute for the closeness they had felt to Him in Narnia. _Even Susan._ But it hardly seemed like a good time to mention their eldest sister.

Edmund realised Peter was still watching him, obviously waiting for a response, and he forced his scattered thoughts back to the current topic. "Still, I'm not sure how this fits with shouting at Him in a park."

Peter grinned and a faint ray of sunlight slanting across the platform caught on his hair and turned it golden, an echo of the gold crown that had been his. "The fact that He answered, that He cared enough, even here, to listen-that was enough for me to find him again."

"And you made sure the rest of us could find Him too, though I don't think Lucy really needed the help." He was fairly certain that Christmas had been the last time Peter and Susan had spoken, but, regardless of the tension between them, Susan had accompanied them to church. It hadn't ended particularly well, of course, but Peter's temper was more to blame for that then Susan was.

Peter nodded, a hint of the frown returning. "Look here, what I'm trying to say is-having faith is all well and good, but I couldn't until I heard His voice again. What kind of faith is that? And now," his expression darkened further still. "I can't help doubting. I don't want to go back just because it's home, I don't want to go back to be a king again; I just want to talk to Him again and have Him answer like He used to. I want to have faith, but I want proof of that faith and that's something of a contradiction."

 _Oh, for the love of-_

Edmund picked up the bag, and pulled his gloves back on before shaking it and letting the rings tumble out, impossibly bright in the dim grey of London in early spring. "Then take one." Peter stared at him as if he had gone mad. "If you are truly as lacking in faith as you say, then take one." _And if you don't, then stop blaming yourself simply for being human._ Some comments, however, had always been ineffective, and were likely to remain so.

Peter stared at the rings and slowly, painfully, shook his head. Point made, Edmund shoved them back into the bag and put the bag crossly into his jacket pocket. "Then stop doubting yourself. No one's perfect-not even you, High King." Whether it would prove helpful or not, that statement was one Edmund had been waiting years to make.

The frown persisted for a moment longer, then Peter shook himself, squared his shoulders, and smiled. "Thanks."

Edmund nodded sharply and looked at his watch again; ten past. "You've always had more faith than you realise. Getting a clear answer is always nice, but you manage to trust in the end regardless."

A distant whistle made them both look up. A column of steam was approaching quickly, heralding the arrival of the late train. "It's about time." Peter stood and offered a hand to help Edmund to his feet. "I mean it though; thank you."

"Someone has to make you see sense." Peter draped a cautious arm around his shoulders, but for once Edmund didn't comment on the show of affection. Despite his frequent protests, he had never actually minded all that much, and he hoped Peter knew that.

He glanced back towards the approaching train-which didn't seem to be slowing-and frowned. "I say, it's taking the bend rather fast!" And it was indeed. The whistle sounded shrilly again, but this time it sounded strangely similar to the high, silvery music of the rings.

Peter grabbed his arm, alarm suddenly flaring in his expression, as he too realised the danger. "Get back!" There was a terrible shrieking crash, a jolt, and then-

Sunlight, brilliant and golden, streaming down upon a beautiful green country. And air, fresh, bright, and unmistakably Narnian.

Two kings, and a Queen, stood beneath the bright trees, and another man and woman-who could nearly have been monarchs in their own right-stood with them. The men were clad in bright armour, and there were swords at their sides and crowns upon their heads. The women wore rich gowns-though the queen carried a bow and a dagger as well-and crowns glinted in their fair hair.

Peter and Edmund each put an arm around Lucy's shoulders, and all three smiled and breathed deeply of the clear air.

"We're home," said Lucy in quiet wonder, and the others nodded in silent amazement. Peter's smile was more joyful even than Lucy's, for his faith-insufficient as it seemed to him-was enough.

Aslan had answered, and they were crownless no more.

 **I'm not sure how I feel about this; not particularly happy with it that is certain. I personally feel that it would be all too easy for Peter to have a crisis of faith and nearly use the rings himself. I'm not sure how good of a job I did showing his reasoning and the internal battle between Peter the High King (who trusts and believes) and the Peter who is slightly disillusioned but trying desperately to have faith anyway...Let me know in a review what you thought :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	6. Seeking

**Some of you may recall that Edmund wrote a letter and told Peter to read it if he needed to...**

 **(Bonus points if you catch the literary reference...extra bonus points if you catch the Pirates of The Caribbean reference.)**

 _January, 1950_

It was worse than she had anticipated, returning to the old house they had all grown up in. She supposed the house itself had changed very little, and the rooms were still strewn with the trappings of lives cut short with brutal swiftness. In the kitchen she found mugs of half-drunk tea, now thick and fouled by mold, and dry month-old biscuits still in the center of the table. None of the house's inhabitants had expected to not return.

She sniffed into her now ever-present handkerchief, pushing away thoughts of Lucy giggling as she handed someone who wasn't quite human a very similar handkerchief, and slammed the kitchen door. She was supposed to be putting things in order; packing up memories and abandoned possessions-clearing the house for auction. In reality, she was using the time as an excuse to sink deeper into the grip pathetic melancholy that had held her ever since the Saturday morning in December when she found herself sitting bolt upright in bed-quivering and _knowing_ something terrible had happened.

She wandered aimlessly through the empty rooms with their increasing layers of dust and longed to feel anything-any sense of connection with those so far lost to her-but there was nothing; only the empty echo of lives that were no more. She riffled through Peter's books, shifted through the untidy pile of clothes lurking at the base of Lucy's closet, and rummaged uncaring through the tidy piles of papers, books, and other, stranger things, that littered Edmund's desk. There had to be something; something left behind that could give her some glimpse into the last days of their lives.

She tore the top drawer of Edmund's desk open, scattering pens, an inkwell which promptly shattered, and papers in every direction before her fingers closed on…something. A tingle ran through her hand, up her arm, and seemed to settle coldly in her chest. Here at last was some trace of feeling, some strange sense that she had been _meant_ to find this. It was a letter, addressed not to her but to Peter, but she hastily ripped through the flimsy envelope anyway. Peter wouldn't mind; Peter was dead.

 _Hello Pete,_

 _I suppose you're either snooping through my things again (you really think I don't notice when my papers are disturbed?), or I am quite probably dead._

Matter of fact, sardonically humourous, purely and completely Edmund; what else could she have expected? She ran, feet pounding across the dust thick carpet until she found the door that had been hers and pushed through it blindly. She bolted it behind her and sank, shaking onto the mattress, a cloud of dust rising around her. She couldn't read the letter. She couldn't. She must.

She thrust shaking hands into her pockets, searching for her silver cigarette case and lighter and lit one with equally unsteady fingers. The smoke burned her throat and lungs, reminding her that after everything she still had lungs to burn, and somehow steadying her frayed nerves with that realisation.

"You know I hate it when you smoke, Susan." Matter of fact, sardonically humourous; Edmund's voice, low and terribly familiar. He grinned down at her from his perch atop her dresser, perfectly as she remembered him last. His hair was ruffled and untidy, his button-down shirt was wrinkled and stained with something that looked suspiciously like mud, and his dark blazer was thrown carelessly over one shoulder as he kicked his heels against the polished walnut of her dresser drawers.

She shifted backwards with a mumbled oath and hastily stumped out the cigarette on the wooden post of her bed. "You're dead!"

"Obviously." He leapt lightly down from the dresser and the air around him rippled as if he wasn't quite there. If she focused hard enough she could see the dark wood behind him-through him. "Otherwise you wouldn't be snooping through my things; Peter's the only one who dared to do that while I was alive." He grinned innocently at her expression, and leaned insubstantially against the doorframe.

She realised belatedly that his letter was still crumpled in the palm of her left hand and smoothed it out carefully, suddenly feeling the full depth of her unworthiness to read it.

"I don't mind you know; it may have been meant for Peter but in the end, he didn't need it. You do."

 _Of course, because Peter was so much better than me. Peter wouldn't have needed help, Peter would have-_

"Susan." Quietly reprimanding but still so gentle. She looked up at him, tears prickling in her eyelashes and saw his expression of quiet forgiveness. "Peter _would_ have needed far more help than you do."

It was ridiculous! She was going mad, had entirely lost her mind, because here she sat-Susan Pevensie of Finchley, formerly of Narnia-chatting companionably with her dead brother. She laughed and reached for another cigarette, but stopped when he wrinkled his nose in disgust and coughed dramatically.

"Fine!" She ground out from behind clenched teeth. "You win. Now what the hell do you want?" Because, if she was being entirely honest with herself, the numbness and lack of feeling that had haunted her was not actually a lack of feeling; it was a terrible and all-consuming anger.

"You're dead; there's no doubt about that. He took you all away from me, and for what? Because I wanted to live my life? How dare I try living in the world I was forced into; how dare I forget the one place I wanted to be, but that He banished me from? Is that it? Is that why? Because I wasn't good enough for him?"

"Susan." It was more a quiet exhale than a word as he crossed the room and dropped onto the bed beside her. The bed seemed unaware of the added weight and the mattress did not even dip beneath him. _Because he isn't really here; because I'm sitting here quietly going mad and no one is left to care._

"I am really here you know," he said quietly, studying the pattern of dust particles drifting through the air. "Lucy and Peter wanted to come, but they thought you might listen to me more than you would to them. I was the one you could never fool."

"I suppose your being here has nothing to do with me snooping through your things and hallucinating?" She asked dryly, avoiding looking at her transparent companion.

"You aren't hallucinating." She didn't mean to look over but when she did he was looking straight at her, eyes seeming to pierce through to her very soul.

"What do you want?"

"Read the letter, and when you're ready we'll talk again." He tilted his head, as if listening to a voice she couldn't hear, and smiled. "That's my cue to leave, I'm afraid."

"You were never really here," she insisted stubbornly.

"You don't actually believe that," he said quietly, rising and bowing slightly. "If you did you wouldn't have put out the cigarette." Then he was gone without so much as a whisper of wind to mark his passing.

She stared idly at the pile of ash and paper wrapped tobacco on her mattress and felt a manic laugh bubble up from somewhere deep inside her chest. _He's right, damn him. Even dead he's still too blasted perceptive._

She crumpled and uncrumpled the paper in her hand convulsively, flicking the lighter in her other hand open, then shut, then open again in a maddening staccato rhythm. _Read the letter. Burn the letter. Read the letter and hallucinate about your dead family some more. Burn the letter and live your life. Read the letter and Live._

She smoothed the crumpled paper and shoved the lighter back into the pocket of her cardigan. Her eyes skimmed the closely written script until she had bypassed Edmund's dismissively humourous opening remark.

 _You're angry, livid in fact, if I don't miss my guess. You probably shouted yourself hoarse demanding to know why Aslan would dare to take me from you. You've turned away now, at least convinced yourself you have, but you still can't keep yourself from looking for answers or you wouldn't be reading this now._

 _Faith is an odd thing, isn't it? Stop glaring; paper can't actually ignite from the force of your gaze you know. Lucy has faith without question; the rest of us aren't blessed with that skill. I question, I search, and occasionally I find, but never in the way I expect to. Faith like ours requires proof, but even once proof is obtained it isn't eternally satisfying. How is that faith?_

 _Faith is hope for things unseen, but it seems to spring from the proof provided by things seen. What a terribly messy contradiction. It necessitates a continuous circle of seeking-finding-and seeking again. Every time you seem to reach the answer it will only satisfy for as long as it takes you to doubt again._

 _I know, it isn't what anyone wants to hear; but it is what you_ need _to hear. You'll lose faith, but you will come back to it-infinitely._

She tossed the letter away feeling vaguely disgusted by the absolute certainty in her younger brother's words; even if they had been meant for Peter and not her, she still felt the impact of his unshaken faith. He could claim it wasn't easy or certain as much as he liked, but in the end, it had been enough hadn't it? And hers had not been. She slammed the door to her old room, ran from her old house, and stubbornly did not look back.

 _February, 1950_

A fortnight later she was smoking in a quiet corner of a little pub near Oxford when Edmund propped his feet up on the table next to her and grinned wolfishly. "Really Su, I thought we already had this conversation."

Hallucination, ghost, or not, she had grown far too accustomed to her brother's particular brand of stealth to be as startled as she otherwise would have been. She flicked the cigarette crossly into the dingy ashtray and stood to pull on her coat. Edmund followed her silently, walking through tables and occasionally other people until they emerged from the smoke-thick pub into the chill of the foggy night.

"What do you want Ed?" She asked wearily, turning up her coat collar and trudging towards her dark, terribly empty flat.

"You read the letter." It wasn't a question. "You're still angry; you aren't ready to have faith again yet. You will be though, I trust you enough to believe that."

She glared over at him as he half floated, almost invisible in the murky darkness. "Are you haunting me? Haven't I suffered enough?"

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark blazer and grinned again; death seemed to have put him in a rather good mood. "I wouldn't be here if you didn't want to talk to me."

"I want to talk to Peter and Lucy; why aren't they here?"

"Do you really? If you did, they would be."

"No," she admitted reluctantly, wishing he wasn't so damnably picky about her not smoking. _It's not as if ghosts or hallucinations breathe._ But she already knew he wasn't a hallucination and it would have seemed insulting to go so blatantly against his wishes. He was dead after all; shouldn't dead people get their way in recompense for not actually being present?

"I'm going mad," she added a moment later with a shaky laugh.

"Dear sister, I have been reliably informed that all the best people are a little mad."

"You didn't come here to blatantly plagarise children's tales, did you?" She was cross then and deliberately stomped through a puddle, that soaked her shoes and stockings, and would have drenched her insubstantial brother if he had only been substantial.

"No," he said, laughing again at her useless show of temper. "Nor to mock you," he added, throwing up his hands in defeat as she scowled. "You want to believe, don't you? It's what you want more than anything. You want to find your way back; you want to trust Asl-"

"Don't you dare!" She turned to face him, furious and helpless in her rage. "Don't you dare speak that name to me!"

He smiled a trifle sadly, threw her a quick salute, and vanished into thin air. She wanted to scream, or laugh, or possibly blunder out into the middle of the street and hope the driver of a passing motor didn't see her until it is too late. Instead she unlocked the door of her flat with shaking hands and slammed it hard behind her.

"No more ghosts!"

The ghosts, it seemed, were disinclined to obey her ban on their presence. The next morning, she saw a flash of fair hair from the corner of her eye and almost turned to scold Lucy for forgetting her hat, before she remembered that she was most definitely not speaking to Lucy-or her ghost at any rate. The day after that, she was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, staring out at the weak sunlight, when her hand slipped, and the knife cut her finger.

"Careful," Peter said unnecessarily, smiling down at her as he leaned against the counter. She hissed and pressed a rag against her bleeding index finger, glaring at her elder brother all the while.

"Just what do you think you're doing here?" she demanded harshly, forgetting that she had not long ago resolved to ignore any and all ghosts.

Peter shrugged nonchalantly. "Not haunting you. I can see how you would accuse Ed of that though; he's too blasted stealthy for his own good. I'm here because there's something you want to ask me; isn't there? Well, fire away; surprisingly, death has not made me more patient."

He was laughing at her; she could always tell. There was a dancing gleam in his blue eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched into something suspiciously like a smile. She threw the whole mound of potato peelings at his head and stormed away.

"Don't be like that Su," he pleaded, catching up to her in the hall. "Just ask your question."

"Fine!" She stopped and glared at him, resisting the urge to stomp her feet like a child. "Why wasn't I good enough for Him? Why did He do this to me?"

"Are you sure it's _me_ you want to ask?" He glanced sideways at something she couldn't see and sighed heavily.

"Yes!" But she couldn't quite resist adding the final, cruel phrase that was clamouring for release in her head. "Because you're the only other one who never really trusted Him."

He didn't flinch like she expected, _wanted_ him to and she a moment later she felt terribly childish. Her brother, impossibly golden and magnificent even in translucent tones, simply nodded, acknowledging the accusation without a trace of his infamous temper.

"Alright, you've made your point," he conceded, not unkindly. "And you're right. I never trusted Him blindly like Lucy did, and I was never quite as steadfast about coming back to faith as Edmund was. I wasn't even as accepting of His decrees as you were. My faith wasn't enough. I defied Him, ignored Him, turned my back on His commands; but in the end, I chose to trust for one moment more. However insufficient that one moment of faith and trust was, it was enough." He gave her one last, golden smile and vanished.

She went back to the kitchen and cleaned up the potato peelings and drying blood, all the while studiously ignoring the other golden-haired sibling who was watching her intently from atop the table.

 _March, 1950_

"You said you wanted to live," Edmund said crossly, glaring at her from across her usual table at the little pub. "I'm fairly certain this doesn't qualify."

She shrugged flippantly and blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. He vanished with a look of disgust, only to reappear on her other side.

"You can't avoid me, Susan. You're the one who decided to talk to me again."

"I didn't," she said loudly, causing the man at the next table to look over sharply. To all other patrons of the pub it appeared as if she were sitting alone, arguing with herself. She stood up crossly, threw an untidy pile of bank notes onto the scarred table and stormed out into the grey afternoon.

"Why is it you always appear when it's dreary out?" she asked conversationally when they reached the corner and her temper had calmed somewhat.

The ghost at her shoulder shrugged and walked absentmindedly through a street sign. "Maybe you only think of me on gloomy days. That's hardly flattering, dear sister." His eyes were laughing even if his mouth wasn't.

"You said it is a continuous circle, but I'm not even seeking, so where does that leave me?" Edmund was remarkably unconfused by her sudden change of topic; he smiled impishly, and she felt a sudden urge to splash through another puddle for all the good it would do.

"You are seeking; you just don't know what you're looking for." He left her to ponder his words and stare through the transparent outline of his back as he walked away, hands in pockets and whistling a merry tune. _Why you cheeky little-_ she didn't finish the thought; she was smiling too broadly.

 _April, 1950_

"Where are you going, Susan?" Lucy bounced along at her side skipping between every step with her fair hair adorned by a crown of daisies.

Susan scowled at the sidewalk and said nothing.

"Come on, Susan, please? Pretty please?" When Susan looked up it was to see her sister doing a marvelous job of contorting her face into an irresistibly pleading expression.

"I'm going for a walk." Susan looked back at the sidewalk, unable to face Lucy's brightness. "Why are you all so worried about me anyway? You're all dead and in heaven, aren't you?"

"We aren't worried," Lucy said brightly before leaning conspiratorially closer to her. "We're just seeking. It's impossible to be worried here, but it isn't quite complete yet, not without you." She smiled sunnily and kept skipping, whistling the same merry tune as Edmund had the week before.

"Aren't you coming?" She called back from the corner, pausing to look over her shoulder. Susan shook her head mutely, but she was no longer quite as certain as she had been.

 _Aren't you coming?_

 _Aren't you coming Susan?_

 _You will come, won't you?_

 _Come to our meetings; listen to our tales?_

 _You know where to find us._

 _Are you coming?_

"Aren't you going to come in, daughter?" The priest smiled at her from the doorway of the little chapel and she jolted suddenly out of her reverie.

"I'm sorry?"

He smiled, Bible in hand as he motioned towards the arched doorway. "You walk by every Sunday, I thought perhaps today you might actually make it through the door."

Before she quite knew what she was doing she had taken a step towards him, and then another. The chapel was quiet, dim, and nearly empty; light filtered through the stained glass and threw iridescent shapes across the floor as she dropped into a worn pew.

 _Seek,_ whispered a Golden Voice in her ear, sending a thrill of terror and wonder through her veins. _Seek, find, and seek again._

And three translucent figures dropped lightly onto the pew next to her, faces upturned towards the arched ceiling and quiet joy shining in their eyes.

"Seek," said Edmund quietly.

"Find," implored Lucy with a brilliant smile.

"And seek again," Peter finished, a quiet strength seeming to emanate from his broad shoulders and crown of golden hair.

When they vanished she missed them, but did not look for them to visit her again. She had wanted to live, she wanted to have faith, and she did believe. And so, Susan sought, and found; lost and found again, until at last she truly found and sought no more.

The End...and The Beginning

 **This is undoubtedly the MOST BIZARRE thing I have ever written. Please tell me what you thought, even (especially?) if you hated it. I'm really not sure what was going on in my head...it was largely the result of a conversation about faith with my best friend, too much caffeine, and only four hours of sleep. I couldn't quite get the idea of Susan being followed around by Edmund's ghost out of my head, and then the rest of them came crashing in and decided to make it a full blown party. Do let me know what you think :-/**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


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